Ardor
by Elizabeth Scott
Summary: Ardor, noun: great passion, fervor, burning heat. I’m suffocating. I’m drowning. I’m losing my mind. Am I even alive anymore? If cut will I bleed? If mangled enough will I die? If so, which way will I go, up or down? Leah Clearwater's story.
1. Preface

_Hey Guys! I have no idea what this is; a oneshot or a story? But it is an idea that i have had for awhile, What about Leah? I have yet to read a story from her perspective, how her life would turn out. So tell me if you like it, if i should continue. Leahs Songs Hemorrhage By Fuel for strength and All The Way Down by Glen Hansard for poignancy._

I hated Jacob

I hated Jacob. With a passion.

That was all I could think as I ducked into the trees, quickly striped and phased. I always had to practice more control in this area because I didn't want to end up naked somewhere with my brothers. They already got to see every thought that passed through my head; I wasn't letting them see the goods too. They didn't understand my modesty in this department, none of them really thought of me as a girl. Yet, it counted to me. Especially around Sam…

Uhhh, Sam.

He was the worst part of this new life. The guy I loved who fell head over heels in love with another girl. _Had_ to leave me. Didn't have a choice. Didn't want to, _had_ to. I would never forgive him for it, all of it. For leaving me, for loving somebody else, for humiliating me. More than anything though, I hated him for not being able to help himself. She was like a drug to him and he was addicted. He had imprinted.

At first I didn't understand why he was avoiding me. How hard it was for him to meet my eyes, and when he did there was that tortured look in his eyes. Like someone had died. Like I had died. And to him I might as well have, he loved someone else and there would never be room for me. Maybe me dying at that point would have been the best thing for all of us.

Another reason for hating Sam, making death preferable.

Then I saw him and Emily together. At first I didn't quite understand, it was so strange. It was like there was a rubber band between them and the farther they were from each other the more stretched and stressed they became. Even I could see that they were desperate for each other, and it hurt. God, how it hurt. Betrayal and rejection raged beside me. I remember having to run outside, away from them. It was there, sitting in the rain, that I first realized that Sam didn't love me anymore. I meant nothing to him. I was all alone. I can still feel the bile rising in my throat.

For days I had done nothing but lie in bed. I didn't eat or speak to anyone, just slept and cried. He had made me miserable and I hadn't even known why yet. In fact it was at this point that I had made a crucial decision: to _hate_ Sam. Really hate him. It became my mission to make him miserable and to ensure that he would always regret what he had made of me. I would get revenge one day. One day he'd be begging me to stop.

That day did come, just never how I'd expected it to.

* * *


	2. Letters From the Dead

_Song: Death Came and Got Me by Rosie Thomas_

* * *

Chapter 2. Letters From the Dead

_Everyday I'm so afraid  
Afraid of dying  
Death already came and got me  
Cause I'm not living...  
I'm not living anyway..._

I made my way into the house, scowling at how dark it was, how it always was. God, how I hated this place. My prison, my fate, my nightmare. I hadn't spoken to my mother in two weeks because of our last fight.

"You have become a cold heartless cage of a girl, Leah! I will not tolerate this cruelty and resentment from you, not after everything, not ever. What would your father think of you?" she had said. I hated her for the things she said and how much she cared.

Didn't she notice I was a hopeless case? Didn't everyone else? I was such a hostile bitch because that was all I could be, all the good I might have had in me burned to ash at the fire that grew in my body. The only way I could live with myself was to lash out and hurt others so I wasn't the only one in pain.

I made my way upstairs, thinking no farther than my bed and getting lost in the abyss of sleep. In my haste I had forgotten about the seventh step, the squeaky step. I heard the rustle of papers and the click of a lamp being turned on in the back of the house. "Leah?"

I cringed but reluctantly made my way back down the stairs and to the family room. I would never admit it but I was glad she was talking to me again. I missed having someone who willingly spoke to me and loved me enough to yell at me. It was sick and pathetic, but true.

I found her sitting on the couch buried in pictures and papers. She still wasn't done clearing out all my dads stuff or work out his estate. Mostly because it took her so long, she could stare at one picture for ten minutes without moving on; half an hour if she started to cry. She was far too thin, having lost thirty pounds since the heart attack and the funeral. Her face was starting to show frown lines and crows feet, her hair speckled with gray.

"What?" I asked leaning against the door frame and staring at my feet. I hated looking at her, seeing my future. Old, alone and miserable. It was like a cruel joke, the women in this family being abandoned by their men.

My mother took a shuddering sigh and said faintly, "I was thinking about making dinner."

I spoke before I could convince myself not to. "Seth's out on patrol and I'm not hungry." With that I turned around and went to my room.

My room was small, only containing a twin sized bed and a dresser and a chair. I didn't even have a closet, I was lucky I had a window. I kicked off my shoes and burrowed under the covers fully clothed. I was finding it harder and harder to sleep these days because Seth usually came home early in the morning and Mom could never sleep herself and often moved around all night long.

Beyond sleeping all I had was patrolling. Which I detested and relished all at the same time. I had been able to dispel the packs pity the first week after my change, but after that they just flat out hated me. None of them could tolerate my presence when phased because of the hell I made for them. This I enjoyed though, making them uncomfortable and squirm with my intense and bitter thoughts. I felt gratified when they would phase back out just to get out of my head, leaving me in peace.

These peaceful moments in my wolf form were far and few between now, thanks to the Cullen wedding. The concept of having multiple vampires in close proximity to the boundary lines had everyone on edge. Our increased numbers helped but the shifts became longer and closer together, nonetheless.

Most of the time I was paired with either Quil or Jared because they could 'handle' me more easily. With their imprints on their mind they rarely acknowledged my presence unless something interesting happened. Not to mention, they were even less sympathetic towards me than the others because they _had_ imprinted. They sided with Sam on the matter of me, always thinking about how I was selfish for trying to keep Sam from Emily in the first place.

_Well, at least don't have to share in Sam's mind for awhile_, I thought. A week ago our patrol times had somehow overlapped and I had been treated to his lusty and devoted thoughts to Emily. I had then, in return, gifted him with the images of my week spent in my bed weeping over him leaving me. After that I turned to the image of my father being revived in the hospital, his last breath, the sound he made as he died. Then, as icing on the cake, my first phase and the events leading up to and after it.

He was practically gagging on his guilt and self loathing as he tried to calm himself enough to phase. After that it became an unspoken rule to never patrol together again and to never phase at the same time if it could be helped. I was glad for this on one level; I enjoyed his thoughts as much as he did mine. But the love sick girl I had once been, still somewhere in me buried deep, wanted to see his face and hear his voice. That small part of me was at all times being repressed, I was so repulsed by it.

I reflected on this as I pressed my face into the pillow and prayed for some blessed relief from my life. Would I ever stop loving Sam? Or, maybe that was the wrong question; would Sam ever stop loving Emily? That answer was painfully and degradingly clear: of course not, not ever. Even if Emily died he would never move on.

I only let myself fantasize about her death for a fraction of a second, and then forced myself to redirect my thoughts. As much as I wanted to hate both of them for what they had made of me, it was hard to do it fully. Sam had been my first love, my presumed only love. I had dated him for four years, we had talked about marriage and kids and growing old together. You can't reverse your feelings for someone like that in one night, in one year or, as I was learning, maybe not even one lifetime.

Emily was only slightly easier to strongly dislike. She was my cousin, my best friend. We had grown up with each other, knew everything about each other. She had been so happy when I had met Sam and fell in love with him. Had been the first to tell me, "Leah, it can work out. People can really love each other enough for forever. It'll happen for you." Hell, she had even met him and approved of him. Then that second time, after he had changed over, it all went to hell. I was enraged at her betrayal; she was family, of my own blood. What kind of selfish snake had she become in that first look between them?

With knowing came only greater pain. I soon learned through his thoughts that it was not what I had made it out to be, a physical attraction and infatuation. It had been real, honest to god, true love. A thousand times greater than what he felt for me, and many times more binding. He had been helpless, torn from me by something mythical and legendary.

At this time my anger was pointed at a third party: God. With an internal battle greater than any I had before, I agonized over what I had done to deserve such torture. Why did God hate me so much, what had I done wrong to warrant this punishment? My nature did not allow me to be repentant, to grovel and pray for forgiveness. It did however allow for greater anger, bigger and greater than any I had ever felt or witnessed before.

In frustration I flipped onto my back and gazed at the low hanging ceiling. My alarm clock read 7:21 p.m. I was always tired these days but could never stop thinking long enough to sleep. If by chance I was lucky enough to reach unconsciousness, I would have nightmares. Mostly about the day of my fathers funeral, alternating images and events associated with it. The gnawing hunger that burned away my stomach was never satisfied by food, for what I hungered for was unattainable. Love. Acceptance. Relief.

I rolled over and set my feet on the cool wood floors, struggling to sit up. I unwrapped myself from the strangle hold my sheets had on me and stood up. I changed into an old pair of my fathers pajamas and made my way to the bathroom.

I managed to brush my teeth and wash my face without looking in the mirror. When it came to my hair though, I couldn't keep my eyes away. All my hair, my beautiful raven black hair that I hadn't cut once my entire life, had been chopped off three months ago. It fell in jagged chunks around my face and to my chin. If I had been my old self, with Sam, I would have paired it with some eyeliner and wore dark colors. I would have made it sexy and chic, started a trend undoubtedly. Now though I barely brushed it and never styled it. My effort towards my appearance these days only went as far as making sure I was clean.

I could still catch my reflection sometimes and wonder who that person was. The one with the wild look in her eyes and the perpetual snarl darkening her features. With the wild hair and hunched shoulders, her arms crossed protecting her small, cold heart. I looked nothing like I did before, I was no longer the beautiful and glowing girl who everyone envied and respected. I was now the belligerent masochist with a habit of wearing her dead father's clothes and never wearing make-up.

I traced the frown lines around my mouth; I knew that they would fade in minutes if I would just stop. I wondered about the last time I had smiled. Really smiled, not smirked or laughed with mirth, but smiled with enjoyment.

Using muscles I hadn't used in months, I forced my lips up in a parody of a smile. It looked unnatural with my furrowed brows and flat eyes. In fact, I looked close to tears, which I did not want to be. I'm surprised the glass didn't break with such a sight.

In anguish my hand flew up to the mirror to cover the pathetic girl's face. I dropped my head and told myself to breathe, just breathe, in and out in and out. I often mentally instructed myself to do things: 'just breathe' 'eat it, just do it' 'don't cry, don't you dare cry' 'stop thinking, shut up'.

Back in my bedroom I sat on my bed and fitted myself into the corner of the wall. The moonlight coming in from the window over my bed didn't touch me here. _I'm becoming an insomniac_, I thought as I stared off into space. _What am I doing? How, in one year's time, did I become a friendless, soulless monster?_

Before I knew what I was doing I was up off my bed and across my room to my dresser. I dropped to my knees and opened the bottom drawer. I sifted through pictures and old school papers until I found what I had been looking for. I gingerly lifted the light box out of the drawer and brought it back to my bed corner.

I held my breath as I opened the stationary supply desk. My hands touched it reverently as I set up the paper, stamps and pens. I lifted the top up to get a piece of the monogrammed stationary. I smoothed it out and poised the felt tipped pen over the mint green paper and thought of how to say the things I wanted.

It was the last gift my father had gotten me, his last Christmas. He had seen how depressed I had been and had wanted to cheer me up. I had opened it—had this been the last time I had smiled?—and been amazed at the lap desk that housed my own personal stationary and pens and envelopes. He had looked at me, smiled and said, "I know how much you love to write, pumpkin, and I know how hard it's been for you to do it lately. So, I thought with this kind of inspiration, you might start getting back to doing what you love."

With this in mind I let the words that couldn't be said flow through my fingers and onto the paper:

_Dear Sam,_

_I have absolutely no idea how to start this. But, I guess, first I should say how much I miss you. How I feel lost and empty without you. That everyday is a struggle to keep going, to look like I care if I live or die. To pretend I don't cry every night thinking about what we had, what we'll never have again_.

_I'm afraid. I'm so scared. Of everything. Of myself. Of you. I can't stop thinking about you and her. About what I would give to be her. For you to love me again. I'm scared of what I might be pushed to do one day, just to_ feel_ something again. I'm afraid of how little I care anymore._

_I want someone to tell me it's going to be okay. Because I can't go on like this. I'm suffocating. I'm drowning. I'm losing my mind. Am I even alive anymore? If cut will I bleed? If mangled enough will I die? If so, which way will I go, up or down?_

_I want so much to hate you. Both of you. I can't though, no matter how hard I try. I hate myself for being so weak, for loving you despite what you did to me._

_That's right. I love you, still. I wonder, do you care at all?_

_Love, Leah_

As if in a trance I slipped the letter into an envelope and addressed it to the yellow house where he had already moved in to. I ran downstairs and out the front door, down the driveway. I put it in the mailbox alongside some bills and thank you letters for the money we were given as dads funeral. I put the flag up and ran back up the driveway, my bare feet making slapping sounds against the cement.

I collapsed on my bed and almost immediately fell into a deep and empty sleep. If anyone had come to check on me, they would have seen the ghostly smile on a calm and innocent face.


End file.
